


We spoke of was and when

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Issues, M/M, Unrequited Love, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre has not been looking forward to this conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We spoke of was and when

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by my babes on [Tumblr,](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) who wanted Combeferre/Grantaire. Thanks as always to David Bowie for the title and the music.

Combeferre has not been looking forward to this conversation.

But when it becomes impossible to put off any longer, he initiates it. He’s long since run through a variety of hypotheses and conclusions as to what the reaction will be. He only braces himself a little. He's rehearsed it enough.

He catches Enjolras alone in the conference room they commandeer after work for the club, and helps pick up the strewn bottles and cans.

“Really great,” Enjolras is saying, buoyed with energy from the lively meeting. “This one went really well, don’t you think? Even Grantaire behaved himself --”

And Combeferre supposes he can’t hope for a better opening, or Enjolras in such a receptive mood. He clears his throat, trying for a measure of delicacy, and can’t resist adjusting his glasses on his nose -- it’s his most anxious gesture, and it makes Enjolras pause to listen and look at him.

“I’d like to talk about something personal,” says Combeferre.

Enjolras nods easily, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, never not moving. He’s caught a bit off-guard, that shows in his too-open eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it.

Combeferre lets out air: “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while,” he starts, meaning to have it all out then, but Enjolras can’t keep his own words in.

When his lips part again Enjolras says, “Combeferre, I--” and he looks discomfited in a peculiar way.

Combeferre smiles, is aware the smile is a touch crooked. “No,” he says. “I don’t believe you know what I’m going to say. It’s true that you can often read my mind. This is not one of those times.”

Enjolras shuts his mouth. He folds his arms across his chest and shifts his center of balance back to the other foot. It’s his listening posture, at least.

“I’ve been seeing Grantaire,” Combeferre explains, speaking over the sudden white noise of Enjolras’ expression. “It started quite casually, so it didn’t seem applicable to work or to the club. But we’ve been spending more and more time together. We like each other.” He thinks he can see Grantaire then, pacing in bare feet in Combeferre’s apartment, wearing down the shag carpet and waiting for him to come back from this.

Grantaire had wanted to be here, and hadn’t, and Combeferre thought it might go easier this way. He and Grantaire have sworn to be truthful, and he will tell Grantaire about the way that Enjolras’ face changed when he told him.

Enjolras’ face changes, and tries to become a mask, and a muscle jumps in his cheek when he clenches his jaw.

Combeferre is saying, “That’s why I wanted to talk about it now. We’d like -- well, to be a couple in public. That’s what’s at issue. We’re done denying it to ourselves and tired of hiding it from others. So we wanted to tell you--”

For a moment after processing his speech Enjolras looks accusatory, like he’s abruptly remembering just how often Combeferre and Grantaire sit together at meetings and in the canteen at work, how regularly they arrive and leave together.

They haven’t completely hidden the blossoming relationship; some of their more perceptive friends know, but they haven’t announced anything, or been demonstrative in the way they want to be. They’ve had to settle for being surreptitious, but even that’s been good. Grantaire’s long clever fingers slipping into the fold of Combeferre’s pocket. Combeferre’s hand ghosting down Grantaire’s thigh under the table, settling warm and squeezing.

Enjolras turns away, and when he looks back his face is blank, scourged of emotion. “I don’t see what this has to do with me,” he says, an edge too sharp. “Your lives are your own.”

“When you’re not organizing them, that is.” Combeferre is nothing if he is not forthright. Especially with Enjolras. That’s his job, his lot. Then he says, “It has quite a lot to do with you. At least it did.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras seems to disagree. “You’re being oddly obtuse about this, Combeferre. Let’s be blunt. You know you want to be.” Combeferre nods, and Enjolras says, “Are you so afraid that my feelings are hurt?”

“You know as well as everyone else that that Grantaire’s been in love with you since he transferred here,” says Combeferre, blunt. He doesn’t need to mention the Christmas party fiasco aloud, or recap any of Grantaire’s more egregious displays of old. Sometimes Grantaire will hide his face against Combeferre’s neck, laughing and groaning in equal measure over the lovesick fool he’d been.

“But you didin’t return his interest, and I...I _like_ him, Enjolras. He’s so good for me to be with. I’ve never met anyone who thinks so differently and sees all the the things that I miss. I used to think my knowledge was pretty comprehensive, but then, with Grantaire -- it’s like I have a whole other universe to explore. He makes me laugh, and he lets me cry with him over bad movies, and I can’t puzzle him out for the life of me. He’s utterly unpredictable; every day he’ll do things I don’t expect; there are no equations that fit. Maybe he’ll be up at 8a.m. painting by the window -- maybe he didn’t sleep and is still painting at 8a.m. Or maybe he’ll sleep in until after noon, or until it’s dark out. Maybe he’ll be the one to wake me, and--”

Enjolras is now completely unreadable, marble-smooth. “Have you told Grantaire that you’re in love with him?”

Combeferre shouldn’t be surprised. He wasn’t kidding about the mind-reading. “Not -- not as such, no.”

“Well,” says Enjolras, or the statue of Enjolras, “now that you’ve briefed me, I don’t see any reason why you should hesitate. By the way you’re going on, you’re going to be moving into together soon enough.”

“Actually,” Combeferre begins, this time the one to shift his weight from foot to foot. This unbalances Enjolras. The marble chips.

“Jesus Christ, Combeferre, really? With _Grantaire_? You hardly know him--”

“A year is not an insignificant amount of --”

“--and, I mean, this thing you guys have going, how can you know --”

“It’s been three months.” Combeferre says it softly but steadily. This is the hardest part. “Now we’re together more than not; it just makes sense.” He wants to say and _I just know,_ but such illogical persuasions don’t belong here. He’ll save that one for Grantaire.

“Three -- _months_?” Enjolras is appearing increasingly in need of a drink. That’s a stranger look on him than the stony facade. “Twelve weeks and you didn’t -- you never said a word to me --”

“Like I said, at first it wasn’t -- I mean.” Scrupulous honesty. Be blunt, Enjolras said. Combeferre draws himself up. “It was pretty obvious he came to me as a substitute for you in the beginning. We’re alike, you and I, and we aren’t. Case in point: I was interested in Grantaire, and I let myself engage with him when he permitted it, even if it was you he really wanted. Then, the more we --” Combeferre only hesitates here. It’s possible he might be blushing. “Well. We’ve come to a better understanding over time, and we’ve found ourselves to be remarkably compatible.”

He doesn’t tell Enjolras some of the things he’d tell Enjolras if he were describing a liaison with anyone else. Doesn’t tell how remarkable they are in bed, how excited and exciting they always are. Three months and they haven’t dulled down: it’s only become more intense, more passionate, more openly emotional. Honest. He and Grantaire fit so well. Nothing between them can possibly be taboo, not with their mixed, wide-ranging interests, so they are frank in each other’s arms, whispering what they need without shame. Sometimes it’s rough and wild, sometimes serious and slow, with their eyes open and their bodies as joined as their thoughts are. Combeferre can’t tell Enjolras how it is, what he has missed.

For a breath after that they don’t say anything. Enjolras is the first to break the silence. It’s almost all out, so he says, “And here I sometimes thought that you -- that you --”

“I do love you,” Combeferre agrees, “as Grantaire did, and differently, as we’ve always loved each other.” He reaches out to touch Enjolras’ shoulder then, because being so far apart feels terrible, and at least Enjolras doesn’t flinch. “I suppose it’s ironic that Grantaire and I are where we are, or else it’s perfectly predictable, considering.”

“I’m happy for you.” It comes with a carefully composed gaze from Enjolras. “For you both. I am.”

“I should have told you when it started,” says Combeferre.

Enjolras raises both eyebrows. “Yes.” He waits.

Combeferre takes the deepest breath of all. “I thought, if you knew, if you saw,” his throat hurts, it’s hurting him to say, “That you might take him from me.”

Enjolras stands stock-still. Combeferre says, “It wouldn’t have been on purpose. I know you’d never want to hurt me like that. But I also know you feel more for Grantaire than you let on.”

“You can’t know that,” says Enjolras.

“Of course I can,” says Combeferre. “We are the same person, and different. It’s simple to put myself in your shoes. You put Grantaire off and thought he’d stay there, but you’d never been challenged for him before. You like challenges. If you knew he was coming to me, in the early days, you would have done something about it.”

Enjolras frowns, but seems to concede the point. At least the frown has re-animated his face, the look of concern turned inward. His golden hair is a spill of curls that create a halo in contrast to the grimace. At last he says, “I must be a terribly difficult person to be friends with.”

Combeferre wants to burst out laughing, and also throw his arms around his most beloved friend, and sing and dance; but he only does the hugging, moving in for that and then away. Enjolras’ heart is beating fast in their embrace but his body is relaxed against Combeferre’s. The hint of Enjolras’ hand slides over Combeferre’s lower back before the hug is finished. It feels more important than any words.

“You are impossible,” Combeferre says, low, “inspiring, incorrigible, irreconcilable, indeed, independent in incarnation, incred --”

Enjolras shoves at his shoulder playfully. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

The light reflects through Combeferre’s glasses when he blinks. Finally he says, “I do.”

“You should go.” Enjolras tilts his head to indicate the stacks of files to be filed and bottles to be recycled, the chairs spun off axis by an exuberant Bahorel. “I’ll just finish up here. This is simple.”

“Thank you,” says Combeferre.

“Don’t mention it,” says Enjolras, and Combeferre wonders if he means it. Surely he knows Combeferre will have to tell Grantaire everything that has transpired. By now Grantaire will be nervously channel-surfing and trying to distract himself with his phone and also keep from texting Combeferre. He can’t say anything to that, so he touches Enjolras’ upper arm as he moves past him and out the glass doors.

A cab to make it home faster. Grantaire is waiting when he unlocks the door, unlocking the door isn’t necessary because Grantaire leaves it open. _If a thief makes it into the building, they’ll be able to break the lock anyway, so why not make it easier for everyone?_

Grantaire launches himself at Combeferre, pushing him back against the hastily-closed door. Grantaire kisses his neck, mumbles into his neck, “God, god, you have no idea, I’ve been going nuts in here. You said you’d try to text--”

“I couldn’t, I’m so sorry--”

“Does he hate us? He hates us, doesn’t he?”

“Hate isn’t the word I’d choose. But it’ll take some getting used to for him, I think.” Combeferre angles his neck to allow Grantaire’s mouth more access when he doesn’t let up, and keeps narrating, arms coming up to anchor Grantaire to him.

He tells Grantaire all of the conversation with Enjolras that he hasn’t already lost to adrenaline. When Combeferre comes to the part about his own reasons for wanting to keep their relationship hidden from Enjolras, Grantaire stills. Combeferre braces himself; this, too, has been the hardest confession, from the other side of it.

Against him, Grantaire is shaking, and Combeferre feels his heart contract with his pulse, until he realizes that Grantaire is laughing. Grantaire laughs until tears stand in his blue eyes, blue and bright as the inner flame of a candle, and then he cants his head back to look at Combeferre.

“I wanted to keep us secret as long as possible as well,” Grantaire says, “because I thought if Enjolras knew, he’d try and take you away from me.” The ivory column of his throat works as he swallows. “And I couldn’t...I want to be with you, Combeferre. The thought of what we’d have to face once everybody knew made me crazy. I’m still kind of freaked out, even if you somehow got Mr. Manager to sign off on the plan. Lots of people are going to line up to tell you you’ve hitched your horse to the wrong wagon.”

The only part of the dialogue with Enjolras that Combeferre did not recount was Enjolras’ defensive condemnation of Grantaire, his _Really?_ and pained attempt to dissuade Combeferre from the idea of cohabitation.

Combeferre isn’t dissuaded. Instead of feeding Grantaire’s doubt, he introduces the new topic, suggesting the move (as a thing that maybe could happen if perhaps Grantaire is so inclined and takes a good long while to think about it, Combeferre adds), but Grantaire’s answering kiss erases all of their doubt. They kiss bound together at the mouth, pressed against the doorway with bodies already entwined.

Combeferre cannot tell Enjolras what it is like to make love to Grantaire, not yet. Combeferre cannot tell Grantaire how he loves him, not yet.

He isn’t in a place where he knows how to ask Enjolras to join them. Not yet.

One day, Combeferre knows, the three will converge. Every day, he wonders if he wakes up in their future.


End file.
